


Certain That I’m Yours (I Adore You)

by a_dusky_gold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Dom Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Masochist Dean Winchester, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sub Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:16:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14205894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_dusky_gold/pseuds/a_dusky_gold
Summary: “You are going to lie here,” Castiel murmurs, rolling his hips slowly against Dean’s. “And take what I give you.”Dean gasps, opening and then closing his mouth without saying anything. He swallows what Castiel thinks is a moan, and suddenly, he needs to hear that, needs to hear his husband shatter beneath him, because of him.He wants to put him back together again.





	Certain That I’m Yours (I Adore You)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a fluffy, cute, domestic oneshot, and of course, my angst-obsessed brain decided to go somewhere else instead. I don't even know why I try anymore. 
> 
> Inspired by the adorable hoomans that are [Kit](https://pavidcas.tumblr.com/) and [Sam](http://samfair.tumblr.com/). Sorry, y'all, domestic fluff turned into bad porn xD FLINGS AT YOU AND RUNS AWAY. 
> 
> Thanks to my lovely [Gem](https://ravenscat-tumbler.tumblr.com/), and [BummedYourFag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BummedYourFag) for the beta and making this readable! And much love to [profound-boning](http://profound-boning.tumblr.com/) for the title suggestions and being an awesome hooman all-round! And thanks to everyone on the PB Discord, y'all are amazing and I love you dearly. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Mild trigger warnings for Dean's self-hate and slight emotional/psychological manipulation by Castiel. But it's all safe, sane and consensual! Enjoy!

**Certain That I’m Yours (I Adore You)**

When Castiel gets home, it's to a too quiet house. The lights are off and he frowns, toeing off his boots.

"Dean?" he calls.

Silence answers him, loud and unnerving. It's been over an hour since his husband stormed out of the university, surely he's home by now?

"Dean!" he calls again. His chest tightens and he forces himself to breathe in deeply as he stalks into the living room. It's empty.

Worry bubbles like acid in his gut and he whirls on one foot, viciously yanking the light switch up. The couch seems to loom bigger and emptier under the glaring white lights and Castiel pulls out his phone. Agitated, he scrolls through his contacts to call Sam -

\- when the light pitter-patter of feet above distracts him.

"Dean!"

Relief flooding him, he dumps his phone on the couch and races upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time.

"Dean?"

"Why, for the love of God," comes the low growl of his husband.

"Dean!"

Castiel lingers in the doorway of their bedroom, hesitant. Dean's anger comes through in the way he's picking up the clothes lying around their bed, murmuring under his breath.

"What?" he finally growls at Castiel’s call and looks up. The dying light that streams through their balcony renders Dean's profile orange, casting an uneasy shadow on the wall behind them.

Castiel steps forward, hand outreached, an apology on his lips, when Dean turns around, pointedly ignoring him.

"Dean, please-" he says softly. "Allow me to apologize-"

"For fuck's sake," Dean interrupts, picking up a forgotten shirt from the floor and dumping it into the laundry basket. "Can you please throw your laundry into the basket at least?"

"I'm sorry about what Meg said," Cas continues. "Dean, you-"

" _This_ is a laundry basket," Dean damn near shoves the basket in his face. He picks up a loose sock lying around - it's a warm, thick woolen sock with a bee-design, clearly one of Castiel's. He remembers throwing it over his head last night, when both of them were stripping hard and fast and could care less about where their clothes ended up, they were so consumed with one another.

And now Dean won't even _look_ at him.

"Stop leaving your shit around, there's a place for everything and everything has its place and all that jazz-"

" _Dean_ ," Cas says.

"I mean, I know you're busy at school or what the fuck ever, and I'm just a mechanic but would it _kill_ you to clean up after yourself-"

Castiel grabs his husband's arm and yanks. Dean whirls around, instinctively throwing his fist at Cas's face. The sock, which is bunched up in his palm, hits him square in the mouth and he sputters as the taste of sweat and dirt darkens his tongue.

Dean freezes.

Neither of them say anything for a long moment, Cas staring back at his husband incredulously. The sock dangles dangerously from Dean's hand, the mechanic's grip on it loosening as the seconds tick by, and Cas straightens up, lips pursed and plucks it away. As agitated as he is, he doesn't allow it to show on his face, instead walking over calmly to where the laundry basket is sitting innocently on their bed. He dumps the sock into it and sets the basket aside, turning back to eye his husband with a raised eyebrow.

"Ca-Cas?" Dean whispers, his tirade halted and his stupor broken.

"I'm sorry," Cas says, voice clear and loud. "Meg was wrong to call you my kept boy. You're my _husband_ , no matter what anyone says."

Dean's eyes drop, and Castiel knows without having to be told that his TA's comment got to him.  

"I am, though," he says, voice bitter and angry. " _I'm_ Sam's guardian, and yet _you're_ the one paying the bulk of his tuition."

"It’s not a competition, love,” Castiel murmurs. “Family doesn’t end in blood, remember?”

Dean snorts. “Family also don’t gotta carry dead weight. You and Sam shouldn’t have to deal with my pathetic ass.” He pauses and looks up Castiel, licking his lips. “You’re a respectable university professor with a PhD. I’m a high-school dropout with a GED who works at a garage and a bar to work off a fuckton of debt.”

Before Castiel can protest, Dean whirls around and goes back to picking up the leftover laundry lying around the room.

“Meg wasn’t wrong.” Castiel can’t see him, but he can hear the tears in Dean’s voice. “I know what I’m worth.”

Castiel’s shoulders stiffen. He straightens up, nods sharply and steps forward, grabbing the shirt Dean’s holding up and pushes him on to the bed. Dean falls back with an _oomph_ , glaring up at him.

“What the- Cas!”

“Right,” he says, voice brisk and rough. “This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to go change into something more comfortable while I finish cleaning up and make dinner for us. I’m going to have you at my feet and feed you, after which I will fuck you into the mattress. Is that understood?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes incredulously. “You-you what?” he sputters. “You want a Scene? _Now_?”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth tips upward and he raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying no?” he asks. “You just hit me - in the face might I add - with a sock. You saying you _don’t_ deserve punishment?”

He can almost _see_ Dean’s protest die on his lips. The younger man deflates and shakes his head mutely, but Castiel notes the way his hands clench and unclench, his body vibrating with a restless anxiety that he knows all too well. This - _this_ is why he invoked his dom persona; he can tell Dean a hundred times that he’s worth everything, that his worth isn’t limited to how much money he brings to the table, but Dean will never accept it easily. He feels the need to _earn_ it, to prove himself constantly, and Castiel can do no less than what his husband needs of him.

So he simply continues to stare at Dean, unrelenting, waiting, his own heart thumping against his chest. Dean stares back, frozen, and then suddenly, just when Castiel begins to think that this was a bad idea, that he needs to take it back, maybe _say_ something -

“Yes sir,” he whispers.

Relief pounds through Castiel’s veins like the beats of a ceremonial drum. He looms over Dean, running a hand through his hair, sifting his fingers through strands that look almost copper from a mix of the current dying light and spending all summer out, under the sun in the garage. Warm fingers wrap themselves around his wrist and Castiel can feel the rough calluses, another reminder of just how many hours Dean has slogged it through. Yet he thinks he doesn’t work enough.

“Color?” he asks quietly.

“Green.” A soft gust of his breath sends goosebumps raising on Castiel’s arms and he smiles down at his husband. Dean isn’t fully relaxed, not yet, and so Castiel simply steps back and inclines his head towards the bathroom, indicating silently that Dean obey.

As always, Dean does not disappoint. A moment later, he disappears into the bathroom and Castiel breathes in deeply. He looks around the room and takes in the clothes strewn around, both from Dean’s ‘cleaning’ rampage as well as from this morning and sighs.

He quickly picks it all up and puts it away, dumping the clothes in with the rest of the laundry and stripping the bed of its sheets. He picks up the sock he’d thrown away earlier and wrinkles his nose as the stench fills his nostrils again; damn, but he _is_ a bit of a slob, he admits to himself. No wonder Dean’s annoyed - if there’s anything his husband is, it’s a neat freak. Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he moves about the room, cleaning up as best as he can, when he hears the sound of the shower running.

Sighing, Castiel sets the laundry basket in the corner and pauses, eyes lingering on the closed bathroom door. His heart clenches. A year of dating and a year of marriage and he still finds himself floundering with Dean at times. If he ever gets his hand on fucking John Winchester and his emotionally abusive ass, he’s going to…

Castiel forces himself to breathe in deeply, to force the anger into the calm he needs. He refuses to go into a scene when he’s overly emotional himself; the next few hours are for Dean. it’s about Dean’s pleasure and wiping away the insecurity Meg inadvertently brought to the surface with her careless and tactless joke. He can’t allow his own anger at John get in the way of what his husband needs him to be right now.

“Right,” he mutters. “That means food first.”

Mentally going over the ingredients he needs for finger foods, he heads back down to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, he’s got the fries in the oven and Dean’s still not out of the shower, so he cuts up some fruit to go with the cheese and sets the table. It’s another fifteen minutes before he hears Dean’s footsteps across the stairs.

“On your knees,” he says, even as the silence lingers, Dean’s restlessness a living, breathing thing between them. Green eyes dart to stare at the cushion he’s placed next to his chair and widen at the sight. For a moment, Castiel watches as Dean’s shoulders stiffen and he glares at the cushion. He can almost sense Dean’s masochistic mood, knows that right now, Dean wants to be roughed up and hated and told that he is utterly worthless and stupid and not on the same level as Castiel is.

Which is _exactly_ why he is not going to do any of that today. He’s going to _pleasure_ Dean, going to show him just how important he is. That, he knows, is going to be far more difficult for his husband to take.

“Dean,” he says firmly. “On your knees.”

“Yes sir.” His expression turns sulky, but he moves over to the cushion, kneeling as asked, back ramrod straight. He’s yanked on a simple plaid shirt and a pair of sweats following his shower, something that will be easy for Castiel to strip away in a bit.

“Color?” Castiel murmurs again, just to be sure.

“Green,” Dean answers.

“Good. And your safeword?”

“Impala. But gimme some credit, I ain’t wimpin’ out tonight.”

Castiel fixes him with a hard look. “You’re going to use your safeword,” he tells him, “If you need to. I’m _trusting_ you to know your own limits, Dean, don’t let me down.” It makes Castiel feel almost dirty, the way he’s almost emotionally manipulating Dean into this, but they’ve been doing this long enough for him to know which button to push.

Dean looks away and then sighs. “Of course, Cas,” he says. “I’ll use it if I need to. I promise.”

“Good boy.”

A satisfied smile curves the corner of his lips at the way the light shudder runs through Dean’s entire form. His tough-as-nails husband won’t admit it, but he likes being praised, which is why Castiel will do it as often as he can.

“Here.” He holds up a single fry, carefully dipping it into ketchup. He makes a show of swirling it within the ketchup, pulling it back out so that the thick, red liquid is dripping down the side of the golden brown fry. He lets the corner of his lips curve up in a dirty smirk as he turns back to his husband. Dean’s watching him like a hawk, his eyes tracking Castiel’s every movement. His shoulders are still tense, but there’s a spark of interest on his face now, his anxious energy pushed into arousal.

“Open.”

Dean leans in, smirking back up at him. Castiel watches, his own breath shortening as his lips open and then close around the fry; they’re red and plump and swollen from the way Dean’s bitten into them in anger earlier. A drop of ketchup smears itself on to the corner of his mouth and the tip of a pink tongue darts out to lick it away. Dean’s smirk widens as Castiel swallows hard, a soft groan escaping his lips - he’s being a brat and he knows it.

Well, two can play at this game.

Castiel smirks back and dips a second fry into the ketchup and pulls it up to his own mouth this time. Carefully, he licks the tip of it, making sure to keep his eyes locked with his husband’s. His taste buds tingle from the tangy taste of tomato that explodes on his tongue, but it’s the way Dean bites his lower lip in response that has his pants tightening.

“Dammit, Cas.” His tone is sulky and Castiel’s smirk widens as he plucks a third fry to feed to him. The rest of dinner is charged, the anger and anxiety from before now ratcheted into sexual tension, and Castiel can taste it, the way Dean’s anticipating getting fucked tonight. As excited as the gleam in his eyes is, the rigidity of his posture remains and Castiel knows that a part of Dean expects this - to be used, even if he gets off on it as well.

And that’s exactly why he leans down to rub the back of Dean’s neck halfway through. The younger man stiffens, his heated gaze turning into a glare. His arms are folded behind his back and he opens his mouth for another fry, only this time, he snaps at Castiel’s fingers, almost biting them.

“Dean!”

Dean raises an eyebrow at the professor, the corner of his lips curling up in a defiant, challenging smirk. Castiel frowns, his grip tightening on Dean’s neck to an almost painful extent, and Dean’s low gasp is as disturbing as it is exciting - because he expects this. He wants to be hurt.

“You’re trying to provoke me.” It isn’t a question, but Dean nods anyway.

“Is it working, sir?” he shrugs. “Do I get spanked before you fuck me?”

Castiel’s heart leaps to his throat at the way Dean’s voice drops an octave as he quotes his own words back at him. Right, then. They’re done with dinner. Dean wants to play? They damn well will play.

“Up,” he commands. The fries are almost gone anyway, so he pushes aside the leftovers and glares down at his husband, who hasn’t moved, and is still glaring back at him. “You do want to be punished tonight, don’t you?”

“I deserve it, right?” Dean grunts. “As you pointed out so aptly. ‘S all I’m worth.”

Dammit. Castiel bites back the curse that jumps to his lips. Clearly, he phrased it wrong.

“I’m going to clean up,” he states. “You are going to go back upstairs, strip and kneel on our bed. If a punishment is what you want, it’s what you’re going to get.”

“Sir, yes sir.” Dean’s salute is sarcastic, a mockery of his usual enthusiasm, and Castiel’s throat tightens as he watches his husband bound up the stairs, two at a time, still angry, still hurting.

He’s never been with anyone as stubborn as Dean is. And as much as he loves him, he’s also frustrating at times, more than anyone else Castiel has ever met. _Well_ . He knows _he_ can be stubborn too. Without another word, he quickly cleans up the table, putting the dishes away before turning to follow Dean up the stairs. He pauses for a moment, considering what he wants to do tonight, and then makes up his mind. Walking over to the playroom, he grabs what he needs before heading inside the bedroom.

Dean isn’t kneeling on the bed as instructed, however. He’s lying down instead, resting his head against crossed arms and smirking out at Castiel. His shirt is unbuttoned, pants unzipped but he’s still mostly dressed. The jerky movement of his hand draws Castiel’s attention and he sees that his husband is stroking himself.

“You really want to be punished tonight, don’t you?” he asks, careful to keep his tone mild, refusing to see just how much Dean’s affecting him. He’s aroused, but he’s also hurt - doesn’t Dean _trust_ Cas to care for him?

“You gonn’ do somethin’ about it, sir?” Dean snaps. “I disobeyed all your rules. I hit you in the _face_ with a sock.”

Castiel doesn’t respond. He leans against the door instead and watches, keeping his shoulder purposefully relaxed, his expression calm and neutral, his eyes staying on Dean’s. Dean grunts, his movements becoming harder, faster, his face flushed as he jerks himself off in anger. The longer Castiel watches, the longer he goes without protesting, the harsher Dean’s grip becomes.

“I- Cas- fuck-” he gasps, “Meg was right… see?” he wiggles his hips in what Castiel thinks is supposed to be a sexy movement, but it hurts, to see his husband like this - because Dean isn’t enjoying it. “I’m… yours, Cas, just- ah- fuck, say something, damn you!”

He glares and brings up his hand to his own nipple and pinches hard. The skin turns purple, his unkempt nail nearly cutting through skin, and a small yelp of surprise escapes his lips, as though he didn’t expect it to hurt. But Dean doesn’t stop even then, pinching it again, his eyes wide and defiant even as they fill up instinctively from the pain.

“Enough.”

Castiel grabs his hand before he can pinch again and break the skin. Dean glares at him, slapping his hand away and Castiel growls, grabbing his hand and holding it tight.

“Safeword out,” he snaps, making his voice as hard as he can, “Or listen to what I say. You only get what I choose to give you, and right now, you’re going to get punished.”

There’s a gleam of triumph in Dean’s eyes as he smirks back, yanking his hand back from Castiel.

“Go on then, sir,” he goads. “Punish me. Show me exactly what I’m worth.”

Castiel climbs on to the bed, on top of him. Dean’s erection pokes at his thigh, but he steadfastly ignores it, keeping his gaze focused on his face instead. Dean grimaces, looking away, but Castiel leans in, brushing their noses together. He pulls Dean’s arms over his head, boxing him in. Their groins press together and Dean whines.

“Not a word,” Castiel warns. “You’re going to take what _I_ give you.”

“And what is that?” there is a slight note of hysteria to Dean’s cocky voice and it breaks Castiel’s heart. Without saying anything, he pulls out the hemp rope he’d stopped to get from their play cupboard before he’d walked in. Dean’s expression tightens, but he remains quiet as ordered, while Castiel quickly binds his hands together and then ties them to the headboard.

“You are going to lie here,” Castiel murmurs, rolling his hips slowly against Dean’s. “And _take_ what I give you.”

Dean gasps, opening and then closing his mouth without saying anything. He swallows what Castiel thinks is a moan, and suddenly, he needs to _hear_ that, needs to hear his husband shatter beneath him, _because_ of him.

He wants to put him back together again.

“You can make sounds,” he clarifies. “No words.”

Bending down, he presses a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead, the softness a sharp contrast to the way Dean ruts up against him, still angry, still anxious, still hurting. Castiel presses down, pulling back to glare at him.

“No moving,” he orders. “No protesting. You’re not going to do anything but lie here and take it.”

Dean whines in response, biting his already swollen lower lip hard. Castiel’s eyes track the movement and he swiftly presses his index finger against the lip, gently rubbing it back and forth. Dean’s mouth falls open, but he doesn’t take the hint, doesn’t press in, doesn’t use his husband like he expects to be used.

Instead, he leans in, breathing against Dean’s face, watching his eyelashes flutter shut. Softly, sweetly, he kisses Dean’s closed eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Dean’s breathing ratchets up, and he moves down, rubbing their noses together before kissing it, “-and perfect-” he frames his face with his hands and rubs his thumb against his lower lip, knowing it’s throbbing, knowing that this pain isn’t pleasant, but it’s a release all the same, “-and so much more than just a kept-boy.”

Dean _keens_.

He’s writhing beneath Castiel, hips undulating, shuddering and gasping. His mouth opens and shuts, words dying on his lips, wanting so desperately to protest, but still, so, _so_ good - because _Castiel_ asked him to be quiet.

And he thinks he’s not good? He thinks he’s worthless?

Heart hammering in his own chest, Castiel leans in and presses their mouths together. Dean grabs on to it, to the kiss like it’s a lifeboat. _This_ , he knows, _sex_ , he knows, _fucking_ , he knows. Affection, he _doesn’t_. Which is why Castiel hums at the back of his throat, a warning for him to behave.

“So perfect,” he whispers, pulling back.

Dean’s eyes are closed, but from this vantage point, Castiel can see the wetness dripping off of his lashes. And he wants that too, wants Dean’s hurt and his pain and his love. So he leans in, licks the single tear that’s rolled down his cheek, and kisses him again, this time barely a peck.

“You’re _so_ much more, Dean,” he repeats. Pulling back, he grabs the massage oil he’d stuffed down his pocket with the rope. He pushes Dean’s shirt to the sides, the buttons already undone. “Lift,” he commands, tapping his hips, and Dean lifts without hesitance, allowing him to pull the sweats off easily. He’s about to throw it behind him when he pauses. Dean’s eyes linger on his form as he retreats, stepping off the bed to go carefully put it in the laundry basket before coming back.

“You’re right,” he says softly. “I should be more careful. Being a slob is no excuse to make you do extra work.”

Dean swallows, shaking his head. He’s about to answer, but remembers the rules the last moment and then nods, lying back, closing his eyes again. The naked trust and fear on his face is as terrifying as it is exhilarating; Castiel’s heart thuds against his chest and he picks up the massage oil.

“I will be better,” he vows. “I’m going to try harder - for _you_.”

He unscrews the bottle and allows a few drops of the oil to drip on to Dean’s chest. A single drop splashes on to his bruised, battered nipple, and Dean hisses, stiffening. Castiel shushes him, leaning down to gently swipes his thumb against the purple skin. Every so softly, he presses a kiss to the wounded spot, tongue darting out to taste the sweat of Dean’s skin mixing with the strawberry sweetness of the edible massage oil. Dean’s panting now, arching into Castiel’s touch despite the low growling of his throat.

“Ca-Ca…” he barely stops himself from saying Castiel’s name; his hands are clenching the headboard tightly, eyes squeezed shut.

Castiel leaves him nowhere to hide, instead pressing tender kisses across his chest, making his way over to the other nipple. He nibbles around it, letting his teeth mark Dean, but with tenderness instead of anger. His other hand continues to massage the oil down his side, and Dean’s helpless against the onslaught of affection, broken moans escaping his lips as he stares down at Castiel with teary eyes.

“You deserve that, Dean,” Castiel tells him sincerely. “You deserve _everything_ good.”

“Ca-Cs-” Dean gasps.

“Meg was wrong,” he continues his way down Dean’s body. He’s beautiful, sculpted, but there’s that little pouch of fat at his stomach, soft and round and fucking gorgeous, and he lingers, kissing it, worshipping it.

“You work over thirty hours a week in the garage,” he kisses Dean’s hip, feeling his cock bump against his chest as he moves further down. “And then another twenty at the bar,” he swipes his hand through Dean’s happy trail, sucking on the tip of his finger which is now wet with precome. Dean groans, shaking.

“All to work off a debt your alcoholic father left you when he died.” Castiel nuzzles his cock, ignoring it in favor of turning over and sucking a hickey into Dean’s thigh. “You raised Sam through high school and sent him to one of the best schools in the country.”

“You’re not my kept-boy, Dean,” he moves back up, settling himself in the space between Dean’s beautiful bow-legs. “You’re my _husband_ . And beloved, you’re _perfect_.”

Before Dean can protest, before he can do anything more than shake his head in muted, half-hearted dissent, Castiel’s mouth closes around his beautiful cock. The loud, pained moan that escapes him is beautiful. Castiel hums in satisfaction as Dean’s thighs shake beneath him. He goes slowly, tasting every naked, beautiful inch of him, pulling back to lick at the cockhead first, lapping at the precome before he swallows him down whole.

“Come at any time,” he pulls back and mutters against Dean’s skin. “Come for me, love.” He hollows his cheeks and sucks, keeping his eyes on Dean’s face, rubbing massage oil on to the part of his cock that is outside his mouth. Dean’s thighs spasm around his neck as he strokes his balls, rubbing his thumb across them, even as he pulls back to just tease at the head.

A moment later, warm, salty come coats his tongue and Castiel swallows, watching as Dean whimpers, his hands scrabbling for purchase as they clench and unclench, his expression utterly wrecked. His cheeks are wet, his face scrunched up and Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever loved his husband more than in this moment.

Wiping the come dribbling down his cheek, he rolls up, moving forward to untie Dean’s hands. The younger man doesn’t say anything, simply letting Castiel arrange him however he likes, still shaking, still crying quietly Castiel removes the shirt and drops it on the floor, making a mental note to put it away in the morning, before Dean can awake. He rubs Dean’s reddened wrists, bringing them up to his lips to kiss them softly, and that’s it.

Dean’s done.

He grabs Cas and pulls him down, letting himself go. Face buried in Castiel’s shirt, he _sobs_ ; his fingers clutch at his back, holding him tight, as though he’s afraid he’s going to disappear. Castiel holds him back just as tightly, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, “I’m sorry- Meg was- fuck I can’t _even_ \- I’ve _messed_ up-”

“Shhh, love,” Castiel hums, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“‘M sorry ‘m a fuck up,” he hiccups.

“Didn’t we just cover this?” Castiel whispers. “You’re not. Meg was the one at fault. Not you. You’re perfect.”

“I… I didn’t get _anything_ right today,” Dean protests, rubbing snot off of his face. “I disobeyed.”

“You didn’t say anything even though you wanted to,” Castiel points out. “You lay there and took it. Punishment isn’t always pain, Dean. Sometimes our biggest hurts aren’t outside, but in here,” he presses his hand against Dean’s heart, over the bruised nipple he’s soothed with warm kisses.

Dean crumples, burying himself again in Castiel’s chest. “God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry- sorry- sorry-”

“I’ve got you, love,” Castiel tells him. “I’ve got you.”

It’s a long time before either of them falls asleep.

 **-end-**  



End file.
